The door to the Dust Crow tavern groaned on its hinges, same way a man might groan when he knows he’s about to die. Heat bled through the town, dragging every smell up from the floorboards — sweat, cheap whiskey, sour breath, blood that never fully washed out the cracks.

Albert Wesker, 'The Reaper,' stepped inside.

Black leather clung to him like a snake skin, every inch of it worn, but not worn out. His coat dragged behind him like a funeral flag, gun flaps hanging loose at his sides. The sun hadn’t finished falling, and its angry light burned through the swinging doors, framing him like some outlaw martyr walking straight outta hell.

One good eye—smoldering red—scanned the room. The other, hidden behind a tattered black patch, still saw plenty. Enough. Scar tissue tugged ugly at the corner of his jaw, but he hadn't given a damn about appearances since he was let go by the law. People looked at the missing eye and thought he was weaker.

Hell, let ‘em think it. Made it funnier when he ripped the soul right outta their chest.

The place fell dead quiet. Poker hands froze mid-air, a mug slipped from some poor bastard’s fingers and cracked on the floor. Women shrank back, men tensed up, knuckles whitening on half-drawn guns. The Reaper had walked in, and everyone in that godforsaken pit remembered the stories their daddies told 'em by firelight—the kind you prayed were just made-up shit to keep kids from sneakin’ out at night.

He tipped his hat back with a thumb, the kind of move you made when you wanted folks to get a real good look at your face—wanted 'em to know there wasn’t a chance in hell they'd forget it. His lip crinkled into half a smirk, but it wasn’t what you’d call a friendly one.

"Boys," Wesker drawled, voice low, that lazy wild-west slur slipping off his tongue like whiskey off a blade. "Ain't no need fer dramatics. I’m just here fer a drink. Maybe a name or two."

The barkeep, a wiry little shit with a face like boiled leather, fumbled for a clean glass but gave up halfway.

Wesker reached the bar, leaned in with one elbow, and tapped two fingers against the wood. "Whiskey," he said. "Leave the bottle."

The barkeep scurried like a rat in a flood. Good. Fear kept a man honest. Wesker poured his own glass, movements casual, loose, like a man who owned the place already and didn’t mind making sure everyone knew it. He drank, savoring the way the cheap liquor burned a path down his throat. Tasted like piss and broken dreams. Home sweet goddamn home.